


Adrift

by Julesss



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Multi, basically just Thomas thinking about the past ten years of his life, bc I couldn't leave it complete angst, before the reunion, then I wrote the reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 20:43:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11169729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julesss/pseuds/Julesss
Summary: He decides to meet somewhere in the middle and declare this place Purgatory.





	1. Chapter 1

Under the harsh light of the Georgia sun Thomas’ skin burns. His hands blister, the blisters burst open and become calluses. Life on the Plantation is exhausting and the days are long. Life without Miranda and James is hell, but compared to Bedlam this place is Heaven. He decides to meet somewhere in the middle and declare this place Purgatory.  
Still, if he must stay here to keep James and Miranda safe, so be it.  


Months into his imprisonment in Bedlam Peter Ashe had paid him a visit. Ashe’s gaze had fixed on the slime mold growing on the wall above Thomas’ head and his face contorted with something resembling a mixture of pity, horror and regret. He explained how he had secreted James and Miranda away to friends Brussels to live in anonymity and comfort for the rest of their days. For that, and for the fact that he’d somehow managed to stop James from doing something utterly reckless and probably suicidal, Thomas told the man he was forgiven, despite the lingering sense of betrayal. Even with Thomas’ forgiveness, Ashe hadn’t met his eyes even once. Thomas supposed Ashe didn’t want to see the part of Thomas that damned him. The meeting at least gave Thomas hope the after his father died, he could be reunited with James and Miranda in secret, in some corner of the globe no one would ever bother to look.  


Bedlam very nearly destroyed him. Once he was secure in the knowledge that James and Miranda would be alright, he couldn’t bring himself to care what happened to him anymore. He's still not sure how long he spent in there, long enough for him to grow used to the constant screams, the moans of pain and madness. For his shoulders to hunch in on themselves, his hands to grow red and cracked, his nails to grow ragged. He hasn’t seen a mirror since, well, since before, but he’s certain he had the gaunt wild-eyed look of all prisoners. For all he knows he still does. Perhaps the worst part was being led outside for the first time in God knows how long. He had seen a normal street and been petrified of all the open space that had once simply been life. When he had been brought on the ship to take him to America, there had been a horrifying relief at being roughly shoved into his cabin, at being able to see the four walls that made up his world. He thinks that instance was the only time he hated himself in all of this.  


Here there is nothing but wide open space. It took time to stand with his shoulders straight again, to look at the wide open fields surrounding him and feel relief, not terror. He still bites his nails right down to the bed, but that’s alright. There’s no one left to care. Sometimes he catches himself wondering if James and Miranda would even recognize him now, but he stops the thoughts as quickly as they form because he has to believe his lovers would recognize him, even if there’s nothing left of him to know. In Bedlam he was so terrified of forgetting them that he spent hours mentally tracing the constellations of freckles across James’ cheekbones, trying to capture the warmth of Miranda’s eyes. Thomas thinks he lost himself completely in the process.  


He doesn’t speak anymore, barring necessity. He has a house to himself, though he’s unsure if it’s due to good behavior or his father’s money. It’s a shack really, but he has a bed and a bookshelf with a single copy of the Bible on it, the only book they are allowed. The book is almost never actually read, but he likes to feel the weight of it in his hands as he thumbs through the pages, to remind him of happier times. During the nights when the loneliness is nearly unbearable, he pictured James and Miranda wrapped around each other and draws some measure of comfort from the fact that at least they are not alone. On the worst nights, especially when the heat is particularly sweltering he pretends he is there with him. He simply rolled away because the heat of their bodies was too oppressive. If he desired he could be curled back against them in a second and Miranda would take his hand while James would sleepily press his face into Thomas’ hair. One night he reached out for them, only for the dirt floor to meet him instead. He laid there and buried his face into his arms, pretending the dampness on his sleeve was sweat, unable to crawl back onto the bed for the rest of the night.  


A few weeks after that night, one of the men in the fields looked into Thomas’s eyes and he knew. It was near harvest and the sugar cane had grown well over their heads. The man weaved his way through the stalks and Thomas followed him deep into the field. When the man stopped, it took him a few moments before he could turn around and face Thomas. When he reached out a hand towards Thomas, his breathing was slow and deliberate, as if that would manage to hide how badly his hand was shaking. Thomas gave his hand a gentle squeeze, then dropped it to trace the man’s cheek with his thumb. The man had dark hair and dark eyes, but something in his expression was so reminiscent of the early days with James.  
“It’s alright,” Thomas had whispered because sometimes the silence was too much. The man’s eyes slid shut and his rough lips met Thomas’. The man did not open his eyes again and left without a word after, leaving Thomas standing alone and unsure if he regretted what had happened. When Thomas was able to make eye contact with him a few days later, the man dropped his gaze like it burned, face red and jaw clenched tight. _My truest love, know no shame_ he had written those words a lifetime ago and he wanted so badly to tell this man that there was shame in desire or in love. But Thomas’ heart was half a world away and he was just so tired. So he closed his eyes and let the ache for James and Miranda wash over him once more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reunion

James is here. James is warm and in his arms and here. Maybe he should be worried about this being a dream, but it feels more real than anything has in years. He can’t be bothered to worry about anything just now. He pulls back enough to rest their foreheads together, so that he can see James’ face. James is crying and oh, when Thomas had pictured this scene he’d always been the one crying, but now he just can’t stop smiling. Smiling like he’d forgotten how to. He gently wipes the tears away with his thumb. 

“You’re here,” Thomas says, that’s all he can think. James chokes out half a laugh, tightening his arms around him. By now James has practically collapsed, leaning nearly all of his weight against him, but that’s alright. Thomas can keep them both steady now. Their noses brush against each other and Thomas isn’t sure who leans in first but their lips meet and. God. Thomas is a decade younger, filled with fire and ready to tear the world apart, so that he can build it anew. He’d never been able to give up hope that they would find each other again, though that hope dimmed over the years. James pulls back just enough to speak. 

“You’re here,” his voice is barely a whisper, “Only… I didn’t--I never really believed-- I thought I’d lost you forever.” Thomas wonders what could have happened to leave him with no hope at all. He finds a way to cling to James even tighter. 

…*... 

That night they lay side by side in Thomas’ bed. It should be too small for both of them, but it isn’t. Though, Thomas is lying on top of James more than the bed. He thinks he would be happy if the rest of his life was just the two of them on this bed, James stroking a hand through his hair. Curled up on his chest listening to the sound of James’ heartbeat. Ignoring the feeling of the world catching up to them and what closing the ten years of distance will entail. James hasn’t mentioned Miranda. Thomas can’t think about what that means right now. 

“Should I expect you’ll be moving in with me then?” he asks, looking up at James through his eyelashes with a soft smile. James’ face was relaxed in a way it only ever is when the two of them are alone. 

“Not exactly,” James chuckles,”Neither of us will be--Silver--He’s the man that, well that’s not important right now, but he gave the man who runs this place enough money for him to look the other way when we leave.” 

“We’re leaving?” Thomas asks and something in his chest constricts. Clearly he hadn’t become as used to open spaces as he’d thought. 

“Yes, of course,” James replies furrowing his eyebrows. He looks harsher with his head shaved and it’s not that it doesn’t suit him Thomas thinks, but that it suits a part of him Thomas isn’t used to seeing. 

“I was thinking that we’d go tomorrow night, give ourselves some time to rest tonight and if you’ve anything that needs attending to, but if you want to go now I’ve no objections,” James continues. Thomas nods. It’s not as if he has anything or anyone tying him down to this place. No one to say goodbye to. Still, its as if this place has taken root in him and doesn’t want to let him go. Thomas had always been a terrible dancer, completely without rhythm. Something Miranda managed to find endearing, always quirking an eyebrow with a knowing smile at him when he stumbled. He might be good at it now, he thinks. The rhythms of the changing seasons and of the slow methodical work have wormed into his very bones and slithered around his veins until he’s not sure how he’d stand without them. Still, he shouldn’t want to stay so he settles for asking: 

“Do you have any idea where we will go?” Now that he’s brought himself to begin really speaking again, it seems all he can do is ask questions and it makes him feel rather foolish. He looks back down so that James can’t see his blush. Taking one of James’ hands in his he rubs his thumb along the backside of it, looking at the nails that are short and ragged like his. 

“A little ways off the property there’s a chest buried with clothes, a few days worth of food and some money. It’s not much, but it should be enough to start us off. I supposed we’d decide what to do with it together,” James squeezes his hand reassuringly. 

“Buy a farm, maybe,” Thomas suggests absently. James huffs in amusement. 

“You’d still want that even after all this?” he asks. 

“Yes,” Thomas says. _Especially after all this_ he doesn’t say. 

“I suppose that could be nice,” James nods with a grin, “At least one of us would know what the fuck we’re doing.” Thomas laughs and they lapse into a comfortable silence. He had always been so pleased when James would say something vulgar in front of him in London and he’s still pleased now, even if he’s heard far more swearing now that he’s a common prisoner instead of a Lord. There’s a hand stroking up and down his spine and Thomas is tempted to melt completely. He hasn’t been touched like this not in years; it’s been so long that everything feels brand new, even as they fall back into existing patterns. Still, he needs answers as much as he needs this. 

“When did you leave Brussels?” He asks and James’ hand pauses on his lower back. 

“We never went to Brussels. We went to Nassau.” That makes a great deal of sense, really. James had never been one to go quietly. In fact, now that he actually thinks about it, he doesn't know how he believed it in the first place. He had never been one to give in to comforting lies before Bedlam and he’s beginning to realize how broken he must have been to believe it then. Half his heart has been returned to him, enough for him to feel the fire in his veins again. As for the other half-- 

“James… Where is Miranda?” James goes completely rigid against him. 

“Dead. She was-- God, Thomas,” James’ voice is a ragged hollow thing. And Thomas had felt this truth slowly creeping its way into his consciousness from the moment he saw James walking towards him alone. 

“How?” His need to know outweighing how little he actually wanted to. 

“Peter Ashe. Miranda and I found his daughter being held captive and decided to return her to him, then we tried to get him to help us fix Nassau, to give you the legacy you deserved. But Miranda realized it was him who betrayed us the first time ‘round and he had her killed for it,” James’ voice is deceptively level. 

Thomas thinks back to Ashe’s visit. He had seemed so genuinely distraught over Thomas’ state and had been so earnest in his assurances that he had kept James and Miranda safe there had been no room for doubt. After months of hearing little other than incoherent wails and seeing only the walls of his cell Thomas could do little other than stare at the perfect picture Peter made. But maybe that’s what Peter had always been he had thought, a painting with all the flaws of the original subject perfectly hidden away. Now, he wonders why Peter came at all. Was there some secret vindictive pleasure in seeing him brought so low? If there was he hid it well. Was it a twisted desire to give him some form of comfort after irrevocably destroying his life? Or did he truly seek absolution, but didn’t think it mattered if he had to lie to get it? Thomas had given him that forgiveness, even after everything and Ashe had turned around and killed Miranda--brilliant, wild Miranda--the moment it became convenient. 

“I’ll kill him,” his voice is flat, almost as flat as James’. 

“I already did.” James laughs, but there’s no humor behind it, “I made all of Charleston her funeral pyre.” 

“You were Captain Flint.” He had never made the connection, but he somehow wasn’t surprised. Stories of the monstrous pirate captain had reached places even as remote as here, stories that he should not be able to reconcile with the man he loves. 

“Yes,” James grates out. He looks away his jaw clenched in resolve, shame? Thomas can see how the images of Flint and McGraw slide over each other very easily. He feels sick. 

“Good,” is what he says, but it's not what he means. It is what he means. It’s the most he’s meant anything in years. He probably won’t feel at all the same come morning. James at him in blatant shock and Thomas briefly thinks he may be the only one that can leave him speechless even after all these years. Thomas is waking from a very long sleep and he’s not sure things will be any easier for him now. 

“I love you,” Thomas says because it’s the one truth he has left. 

“I love you,” James rasps and the tears are beginning overflow again. Thomas kisses them away and then kisses his love once more, on his forehead. 

“We’ll be alright,” Thomas whispers. They have to be alright, somehow. They’ve survived far too much for the rest of their lives to be misery and hardship. He thinks that perhaps one day they could even be happy again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't leave Thomas alone, so I decided to do my take on the reunion :)  
> In the end I don't think it would all be smooth sailing, but they'll find a way through it all together.

**Author's Note:**

> So, first fic! It still needs work, but I'm so nervous and I realized that if I don't post something now, I'm never going to post anything ever, so here you go. Let me know what you think :)  
> Also I do not own Black sails or any of its charaters and I profit off of this in no way.


End file.
